


it's lyrical, it's me and you

by withoutwords



Category: SKAM (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Humour, M/M, Mentions of Mental Illness, Some light angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-11-12 17:44:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11166867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withoutwords/pseuds/withoutwords
Summary: “I’m fine, Isak,” Even tells him, and he’s starting to sound a little tired now. Tired of the questions, tired of the worry. “I was fine yesterday, I’ll be fine tomorrow. In fact. I’m better than fine. I’m great. Because I just found The Clash on vinyl and I’m going to take it home, get my boyfriend naked, and play White Riot so fucking loud the neighbours will complain.”





	it's lyrical, it's me and you

**Author's Note:**

> uh so I mostly wrote this AGES ago, because desert_coffin mentioned my writing and I was all, I have writers block, and then I was all, WAIT A MINUTE, and then this happened (very slowly because surprise! I have writer's block). so thank you desert_coffin! and I hope it makes people smile.

It takes a while for Isak to notice.

He’s swamped with school, and he’s waiting tables at the _Kaffebrenneriet_ and they’re always so busy these days, they don’t have a lot of time to just stop. They don’t have a lot of time to just be.

“So, uh, you haven’t drawn anything in a while,” Isak says tentatively when he sits with Even at lunch. Even throws him a confused little look, shrugging with the tip of one shoulder as if that’s an answer itself.

“Is everything okay?”

“Yes,” Even says honestly, his smile bright as he nuzzles into Isak’s cheek. “Of course. I’ve just got a little, you know, artist’s block.”

 _Artist’s block_ , Isak mouths back at him. Isak’s facts and figures. He likes to know how things work, how a body moves, how the world turns. Even’s different. He lives in all the spaces. In the _rebuilding_ , and the creating, and all the cracks where music and light and thoughts get through.

It’s no wonder the traffic in his head gets backed up sometimes.

“Do you need me to be your muse?” Isak asks, only half joking. “I could pose naked.”

Even laughs big and loud around his mouthful of food, bumping Isak with his shoulder. Isak knows him so well now – like a second skin, the feel and the smell and the truths of him – and he knows it’s an honest smile. He knows he shouldn’t worry.

“That’s a very kind offer, Isak. I’ll keep it in mind.”

*

Isak’s heading home from work when he sees a nice tin of pencils in a shop window. They’re simple, and elegant, and before he knows it Isak’s gone inside and bought them for Even (along with a set of charcoal and some paper and a little sketch pad that has _chill_ splashed across the front).

It’s something they do, normally, share gifts. Even had bought Isak a snapback once because it had been the only one left in that colour. He bought him new gloves for that week Isak decided he liked gardening; and a box set of _Doctor Who_ because he promised Even he’d watch it with him.

It’s something they do, give gifts. It’s no big deal.

“You’re really worried about this drawing thing, aren’t you?” Even says around a laugh, as he takes the things Isak’s gotten him out of the bag.

“ _Nei_!” Isak protests with a huff, pushing at Even’s shoulder. “I just – I want to help.”

Even’s expression softens, and he leans over to press a sweet, chaste kiss to Isak’s mouth. Isak watches him as he takes out a pencil, as he rips a piece of paper from the binding and starts to scribble away on it.

It only takes a minute, and when he’s done he passes it over.

Isak holds it up and squints. It’s a circle, with triangles and letters and dashes and things. He has no idea what he’s looking at. “What is it?”

“A compass. People use it when they go hiking and stuff. It helps them find their way.”

“That’s … nice?”

Even ducks his head in close, pinching at Isak’s nose with a smirk. “This way you won’t get lost in any more art shops.”

“Asshole!” Isak shouts, getting an arm around Even’s neck while Even laughs and tickles at Isak’s sides. When they’ve calmed down, and their foreheads are pressed together, and their breathing’s a little fast, Even whispers to him,

“And you’ll get home to me sooner.”

“Loser,” Isak says, but it’s quieter, and he chases it with a kiss, the pencils clattering to the floor as Even pushes him onto the bed.

*

Even knows a lot about this place. And not just where to go to get the best coffee, or how to find the library from the nearest train station. He knows the history, and the people, and the culture. He knows the way a certain street will smell. He knows what time the old guy at the grocer has his break. He knows the names of the kids doing street art, and can point out whose stuff is whose.

It’s a whole new world with Even, and Isak doesn’t want to see any of it closed off to him.

“How are you?” Isak asks, as they’re looking through old records. Isak’s got a hold of Even’s hand, and is pushed up close, talking to his throat.

“Hungry,” Even says absently,

Isak huffs at him. “I didn’t mean – I meant in here.” Isak points at Even’s chest.

“No,” Even says with a teasing look, pointing at his temple. “You meant in here.”

“Well, that too.”

“I’m fine, Isak,” Even tells him, and he’s starting to sound a little tired now. Tired of the questions, tired of the worry. “I was fine yesterday, I’ll be fine tomorrow. In fact. I’m better than fine. I’m great. Because I just found _The Clash_ on vinyl and I’m going to take it home, get my boyfriend naked, and play _White Riot_ so fucking loud the neighbours will complain.”

Even pulls the record out with a flourish, Isak inspecting the front cover with a frown. “What’s _White Riot_?”

“Unbelievable!” Even yells so loud that people look over. He starts to pull Isak toward the counter, walking backwards and smiling at Isak as if he’s torn between his complete adoration and complete annoyance. “ _You’re_ worried about _me_ and you haven’t even heard _White Riot_!”

“All you listen to is _Lemonade_ ,” Isak yells back, and Even just tips his head back and laughs.

*

It takes a lot of convincing (and a long list of IOUs) to get Eva’s cabin for the weekend. Even borrows his mum’s car to get them there, and Isak borrows some cash from his dad to buy food, and Eskild puts something in their bag as they’re leaving that Isak’s too afraid to ask about.

Even promises he’ll keep it hidden.

There are games at the cabin, and the ocean’s nice, and Even plays a few songs on the guitar mostly because Isak pouted at him for so long his bottom lip started to hurt.

It serves as a distraction for a little while.

But mostly they just get naked.

“How should I have you pose?” Even asks, his mouth low on Isak’s belly as he pushes one of Isak’s knees aside.

“Uh, what?”

Even laughs, taking a gentle bite of the flesh at Isak’s skin, the skin red and raised and stinging. “You told me you’d be my muse.”

“In, in drawing,” Isak says around a gasp, pulling at Even’s hair. “Not _fucking_.”

“Well, Isak, I’d rather fuck you than draw you - ”

“Rude!”

“But if you want me to stop …”

“You’re not funny. You’re the unfunniest person I’ve ever met – _Jesus_.”

Isak wonders what he’d do if he could draw. If he’d sketch the trees outside, or that old antique chair by the door, or the curl of Even’s fingers in his skin. He wonders if he could do this justice – the way their hair and mouths and limbs all knot together in the shape of something new. They do this a lot, they’re so good at it – but it does feel new, every time.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Isak curses to the ceiling, Even’s mouth around him and his fingers inside him, and they’re like an electric charge, the constant circle of energy making light.

It’s not a drawing, he can’t frame it, but he knows it’s art in a way.

Even’s always told him it is.

*

There are times Isak feels way out of his depth. When Even’s reciting whole books worth of poetry at him in the middle of the night, or breaking old plates so that he can make mosaics. When Even disappears for days or more at a time, floating in and out like the tide. When Even’s giving up, telling Isak he deserves better, telling him to _just go_.

Isak takes that a minute at a time.

This, though - it feels different.

“Isak, _stop_ ,” Even bites out after Isak had been hassling him about drawing again. He’d been reading up on helpful hints – go for a walk, do some meditation, splash some paint across a blank canvas just to see what happens – but it’s dumb. He knows it is.

“Okay,” Isak says, realising that Even is serious. “Sorry.”

Even comes to sit by Isak with a slump. He throws an arm around Isak, Isak’s head falling onto his shoulder.

“It’s just, school, and applying for jobs,” Even says, “There hasn’t been much space for anything else.”

“I get that.”

“I’m not giving it up,” he promises, giving Isak a little shake. There’s something in his voice, his grip, that says he understands. That this is more than a few drawings. “I’ll _never_ give it up.”

Isak catches his breath. He takes Even’s hands, and plays at his fingers, and admits, finally, “You used to draw for me, when you – if things were too hard, you know?”

“I know.”

“If you had to talk but you _couldn’t_ talk.”

“Yeah.” Even’s hand curls in Isak’s hair. He tugs his head back a little, and looks him in the eye. “But things have changed since then. I have you.”

“You’ve always had me.”

“I know that now. I _believe_ that now.”

Even kisses him. Slow, and soft, and not leading to more. Just them, just together. “I wish I could draw,” Isak says quietly, after a beat. Even pulls a face.

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Just … if I had a talent like you.”

“You have lots of talents!”

“Name one.”

“You make the perfect coffee.” Isak just scoffs at him, rolling his eyes, but Even goes on without a hitch. “You can remember things very easily. You can rap. You can sing - even though you tell me you can’t and never do - you’re funny and a good friend and - ”

“Alright, alright, I - ”

“No, no, be quiet I’m drawing something here, listen,” Even says, tugging Isak closer, and wrapping him up warm, and talking and talking and talking until there’s nothing left to say.

*

There’s a new picture on Isak’s wall.

It’s just a stick figure, wearing a cap, with the caption _draw me like one of your French girls_.

Isak laughs until he cries.

It feels good. 

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr.](http://thefancyspin.tumbr.com)


End file.
